Heartbeats and Stars
by dependsonthesituation
Summary: Angel!John. Post-Reichenbach. John dies in an alleyway because of a knife wound and was excited to finally go to Heaven and see Sherlock again, until he realizes Sherlock wasn't there among the other Angels. John returns to Earth...
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: Un-beta'ed and non-britpicked. I am an ignorant American so go easy on me please. **

**The Usual Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters and all credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and all those beautiful people down at BBC Sherlock who really need to hurry up and make the next season before we all die of insanity.**

**Inspired by the song _Beam Me Up_ by P!nk**

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Heartbeats and Stars

Sometimes my imagination was a lot more creative then I would ever give it credit for. Maybe it was the hallucinogens or the ecstasy, or maybe I really was finally losing my mind. Scientific studies of the mind's creative capacities were the last thing I was worried about, however, if I was worried about anything at all.

He wasn't real. Of course he wasn't. The real Sherlock wouldn't cry like that or hold me to his chest. I listened to his heartbeats.

How beautifully wonderful the mind could be.

"John, stop it. Just stop this."

My fingers ghosted against his cheek. His prominent cheekbone was soft, softer than what I would have thought they would be. I took a moment to appreciate the strength of the mind to conjure up such a realistic image, "You were my one miracle, Sherlock."

He shushed me, his baritone voice hitching up frantically, "Hang on John. They're coming. You need to stay with me, do you understand?"

I chuckled, well at least attempted to. A sharp, familiar pain shocked up from my chest.

_Punctured lung._

The doctor part of me was still functioning at least. I focused a bit more on the pressure on my chest until I realized it was Sherlock's palm that was holding the life in me.

Smiling was less painful and I angled back far enough to search his face. He wasn't the Sherlock I remembered. He was a lot thinner; the circles under his eyes spoke of many sleepless nights. I would have thought I'd have taken better care of my imaginary Sherlock, "Of course I understand, you twat. Why would I go anywhere else?"

Sherlock searched me intently like he used to. His eyes were more beautiful then I remembered and I spent the short pause between us to count the colors. There were voices around us now. My Sherlock yelled something at them but I was already drifting too far away to really understand what anyone was saying. I wished he would ignore them, and at least spend this short time my brain was being brilliant enough to conjure this one last moment for me. I tried to catch his eyes again in the dull alley lighting, but I really was too weak to move. I settled for clutching feebly at one of those shirts he always wore, not very tight anymore from the weight loss, but still very good-looking on him. I wondered where his coat went and why his scarf wasn't around his neck. The night was quite cold after all.

I was shaken awake. I didn't even realize my eyes closed of their own occord, but it took a lot more effort to open them again. Mostly because I feared my Sherlock wouldn't be there.

He was.

_"John…"_

My name was on his lips, but it came out soundless, far away on the other side of the solar system that didn't matter. But I've already heard it enough times to know exactly what it sounded like. I've heard it breathless after a chase, the type that would thrill up my spine and rock my world out of orbit. I've heard it grating along my nerves along with a barrage of _"Bring me a case!"_ or _"I'm bored!"_. I've heard it demanding, full of authority, intelligence, and confidence that captured my soul every time it was uttered. And I've heard it pleading and helpless in those moments when he realized that the world was really as stupid as he thought it was.

Only once have I heard it broken, but it was a sound I only kept close to the tear in my heart, the poison that has been leaking into my spirit since he left me. The voice that had been tearing me from the inside out, echoing the very last words he ever spoke to me. Broken, and so very sad…

_"Goodbye John."_

I felt no pain anymore, not even the chill or the arms that tried so desperately to hold me to this world. I knew what dying felt like so this time I was ready, even though what happened was slightly different. There was no light at the end of a tunnel, but the warmth of the stars. Astronomers thought that stars were particles made of all the elements of the world with gases and dust; but I knew… I just _knew_ they were the angels.

They were love and the hands that cloaked me with happiness and warmth. I climbed slowly from my place within that dank place on Earth. My mum and my dad pulled me into a tight embrace. I greeted the men I've failed to save; forgiveness and mirth lining their faces as they shook my hand. I saw the mates who died by my side, who slapped me on the back and laughed at some old inside-joke no one else would get. No one spoke, but I knew this was the welcome to the only place that I would remain happy forever with the people I cared about and loved.

But where was Sherlock?

I frowned. They frowned. I looked around. They shook their heads.

_"Where is Sherlock?"_

_"He's not here, love."_ My mother placed her hand on my shoulder, the one that was no longer throbbing in pain.

I panicked, _"He didn't-"_ I looked down, unable to say the word aloud.

_"No,"_ She took my hand and motioned back to Earth from whence I came.

I followed her eyes and couldn't believe what I saw. If it still beat, my heart would have soared with joy.

Sherlock, not my imaginary Sherlock, was kneeling in a dark alleyway. Ambulances crowded the entrance and medics hurried around the huddled man. He was hunched over something I couldn't quite make out for myself but whatever it was must have been very important to him. He wouldn't release it, no matter how many people pleaded and struggled. After a while, they just left him alone, lingering on the edges, waiting for some kind of relinquish or change.

That was when another familiar shape arrived, his sharp suit very conspicuous compared to the ill-fitting uniforms and his umbrella swaying at his side. Mycroft was speaking to his brother, but I couldn't hear what he way saying though I think it wasn't very nice because now Sherlock was shaking. Why does Mycroft always have to hurt Sherlock?

_"You can go closer if you want,"_ My dad spoke beside me. I glanced at his face, no longer lined and aged as it was before. His eye, brown like my sister's, gazed at me steadily with as much understanding as they held when he found out I wanted to join the army or when Harry told us she was gay.

_"Will I be able to come back?"_ I looked around at the sky so full of stars, angels, and the beautiful places I could go. As much as I yearned to stay with Sherlock and see him again, I hoped to my core that one day maybe I could see the rest of the Heavens.

He smiled, _"Only when you're ready. This place is for happiness after all."_

I grinned and hugged him because I could. Then I hugged my mum and saluted playfully at my friends, promising to see them soon. I looked one last time at the place so empty, yet so full, and I dropped back to Earth.

Light as a feather, my feet touched upon the world and the sounds, colors, and smells drenched me, as if I have never done any of those things in a long time. Around me, the medics spoke softly, some impatient, some empathetic, others were just chatting as if it was a normal Sunday morning at the café.

I looked for Sherlock and Mycroft and found them still speaking, but now Mycroft was yelling. I've never heard Mycroft raise his voice before (with exception to Buckingham Palace).

The British government was livid and twisted with bitter frustration. To my surprise, tears tracked down his face and I wondered again how important this person could be to do this to the Holmes brothers, "Sherlock, he's _gone_. Let him go, _NOW_!"

I frowned when the younger brother didn't reply with the usual cutting words. Instead he only shook his head. I stepped closer, walking around the other people but realizing how useless that was when they couldn't feel me anyways, and bent to have a closer look at the huddled Sherlock.

He looked so broken, pain stabbed somewhere in my essence. His beautiful face contorted in a grimace I feared would remain permanent if I didn't smooth it out soon. There were tears, and he wasn't shaking, but sobbing. They were so silent, almost like the violent shivers he got that time we were stuck out in the snow. I reached out to hold him, but I couldn't touch him no matter how hard I wished I could.

Another pair of steps sounded behind us and a gasp I knew very well, "Oh God, Mycroft. That can't be-"

"Yes," Mycroft replied softly, his voice cracking now that he wasn't yelling anymore, "I'm afraid it is. Perhaps you know how to help?"

Lestrade sighed, "No, I'm just… I'm sorry… I wish I was watching him closer. He's been acting so different and the drugs… " I was surprised when his voice broke too, "I wish I knew…"

"It's not your fault alone, Gregory." Mycroft cleared his throat, "We all thought everything would be alright in the end, we forgot the journey."

I couldn't put my head around what the two were talking about so I turned my attention back to Sherlock. He almost looked asleep now. I noticed his coat was covering the form in his arms and I wished someone would be useful for once and put a blanket around the man. It was really cold out.

I watched him the rest of the night. It hit me along the way that Sherlock was alive and that he never was actually dead at all. I was angry of course, so angry I walked back and forth down the alley a couple times before I came back and sat next to him again. I was dead and Sherlock was in pain. Even if he didn't care what he did to me, I still do care what someone did to him to put him through enough to cause him to act this way. I've never seen him act like this about anyone, but three years was a long time to change. Whoever it was, they must be someone he loved very much.

He really was sleeping now. I could tell by the shallow breaths though his arms were still vice-like around that form. I loved him when he was asleep almost as much as I loved him when he was awake. I reached out, knowing that I still wouldn't be able to touch him, but I couldn't bear not to try and move a lock from his eyes. His hair was much wilder then I remembered and if you looked real close, stubble coated his sallow cheeks. I smiled to myself, remembering the time when he was asleep on the couch and I convinced him that he was a handsome prince enough to make him jump out of his duvet, brandishing an imaginary sword and yelling about a dragon and gold.

The sun came up from the horizon, striking warm rays of the morning on to the people in the alley. They were taking it easy, the ambulance left long ago. Mycroft and Lestrade were still talking in muted tones off to the side, thinking up some kind of strategy to get the body away no doubt, and some of the other Yarders lounged around the crime-scene tape to ward off curious onlookers.

No one was paying attention, so I got the treat of being the first to see Sherlock wake. It's different every time, but mostly, his waking rituals are put in to three categories: 1) Yell about something incomprehensible 2) Wake slowly and moan about how bored he was or 3) Jump out of bed and on to a case, yelling for me to hurry up before he leaves me behind.

This time however, was different.

His chapped lips formed the word before his eyes opened, "John."

Stunned, I watched the half-sleeping man cradle the body in his arms and slowly pulled his coat from the body's face… _my_ face. The man groggily regained his bearings and steel composure and I wondered not for the first time what he was thought of while he was asleep. I watched in awe as his face set firmly though new tears fell unchecked down his cheeks.

Everything clicked into place, and suddenly the insides of me crushed with the grief I knew I should have felt since the moment I died.

_Oh God. What have I done?_

What have I done to the one person I treasured more than myself? How could I have done this to him?

His pale palm rested against my grime-coated cheek. A part of me was ashamed of how disgusting I looked and another part of me cracked beneath the realization that I could never actually feel that hand again, "Goodbye John."

His lips ghosted across my forehead, and before I knew it I was crying too.

_"Goodbye Sherlock."_

Then the man froze. He stopped breathing and I feared for a moment his heart finally got tired of him and gave out.

_"Sherlock?"_ I don't know why I spoke but it was the only thing I could think of doing.

His eyes moved from the empty body, and slowly looked around him for the first time since my death.

And he found me, his clear, brilliant eyes wide with an expression so surprised I wasn't quite sure it was really him.

It took me a moment to realize he was staring at me and I checked behind to make sure he really was. Our eyes met, the world seemed to stop and I was pretty sure it should have because this was something I could only ever dream of ever happening to me.

"John."

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**A/N: Thank you for reading! I wrote this particularly because I felt angsty one night and couldn't stop myself from writing my heart out. Because of that, this might just remain a oneshot unless I feel motivated enough to continue on writing. I already have a lot of ideas on how this is going to go on but school will definitely catch up. I apologize if any of the characters seemed ooc and for grammatical mistakes. Please review and if you wouldn't mind this going on for more chapters please say so! ^.^**


	2. The perks of having a best friend

**A/N: Thank you thank you thank you for all the alerts, favorites, and reviews! Really, I don't see how some people write without them. You all are beautiful people and I think this fandom is lovely(though somewhat brilliantly insane). I'm just happy to somehow contribute in any way possible. **

**Anyways, I decided I might as well make this a series. I love the idea so much I told myself: "shoot, why not?" ("because it might suck, that's why not!") So I'll try my best to update often. **

**I also want to mention that I am not particularly religious and I'm trying to stay away from too much of that aspect of this story. If I in any way insult anyone through this, I am so sorry. You can throw books at me if you want.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own. Duh.**

** Also un-beta'ed and not brit-picked. Any mistakes or historical inaccuracies, just message me. I don't mind. **

**This chapter was inspired by Breakeven by The Script**

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_Chapter Two: The perks of having a best friend_

Sometimes my imagination is a lot more creative then I would ever give it credit for, or ever care to admit for that matter. I've long ago accepted the peculiarities of the brain, and mastered the art of detaching the fact from the fiction. The hologram from the ghost. The code within the numbers.

I never fully appreciated John Watson's life until it had been completely eradicated from all of him but his eyes. Those striking, trusting, calm midnight-blue eyes. They were so clear, if I looked long enough the soldier inside would drag me from the chaotic war-zone where there is only pain and grief. Then the doctor would stitch me up and get me safely home, where my flat-mate, and my one and only friend, would brew me a perfect cup of tea.

Just by those eyes alone, I knew this entity, this man, was my John Watson.

Yet he was not the John Watson I remembered. He was a younger version, before life claimed the innocence. As if he has never seen a man blow to pieces before his eyes and the nightmares were simply shadows in the dark. His laugh-lines were gone and the heavy skin around his mouth and nose were faded away. His blond hair no longer held flecks of gray and somehow gleamed gold even in the dull light of the morning. He was wearing that striped jumper he only wore on the days he was in a particularly good mood, along with those a pair of dark jeans he secretly loved but was always complaining were much too fitted. Now they were perfect.

"John." The voice I heard hardly sounded like my own.

We stared at each other, the light in his eyes so very alive and his unlined face the extreme expression of befuddlement reserved for those moments when I was being considerably brilliant… or ridiculous…

I reached out my hand, the one not holding the corpse of my best friend; careful but steady as I always am. This was one of those very few moments of my life when I wanted to touch someone for my own comfort; I finally needed to touch to really prove something to myself.

To my dismay, he shook his head and leaned away. I frowned and with a start, noticed something else that was really… _not_ a part of John. At least not that I remembered, though in an afterthought, this new addition was rather fitting.

At his back, broad, and flexing, was a pair of massive wings with a plumage of pure white speckled with various puddles of silvery-grey. They were twitching, almost as agitated and surprised as its owner who was still staring at me still with that look of wonder on his face.

"John," I said again. An expression I didn't understand immediately came over him. I frantically tried to read it, but it was hard to read something that did not make any sense at all. I needed more data, "John… have I done something wrong?"

The laugh looked painful on him, as if he wanted to hold it in but it forced its way out anyways. Tears trailed down his cheek. I reached out on impulse to wipe them away but he moved backwards again. Those wings fluttered and lifted him backwards, as if he was simply weightless. Like music in the breeze.

"No Sherlock… well, _yes_, but no. This time was my fault."

I nodded, starting to understand where this conversation was going, "You were murdered John. That was hardly your fault."

"No, but getting pissed and higher than Mycroft's ego didn't exactly play fate into my favor," he chuckled softly, "I really am an idiot aren't I? I couldn't even tell that you were alive. What kind of friend wouldn't know that?"

I frowned, "I made sure you didn't know."

"Yeah, and a good job you did. Fooled me and the world, though obviously not your bloody brother and Greg."

"I couldn't tell you, John."

"Couldn't you?" He closed his eyes and sighed, "You have no idea how odd this feels. This is the first time we've spoke in years. It's like I'm speaking to the dead, and then I realize _I'm_ the one who's dead. Bit not good that."

I grit my teeth, "It was to protect you-"

"I know, Sherlock, and I forgive you for that. _Thank_ you, for that. I just wish… I don't know what I wish for…" He turned his face away from me, but not before I caught the wistfulness. The regret.

"You wish you were alive." I looked away too, not really seeing anything anymore but that face, now burned into my memory, "You wish you hadn't died this way."

He still said nothing, but I knew I was right. We sat that way together silently for a while, sharing the space and watching the sunrise. Its warmth chased away the chill of the alley; not like I much cared that I was cold in the first place. Only transport after all.

"I should go."

I snapped my attention back to him, noticing the sun glinting off his hair and the way his wings were outlined by a soft glow of sun-dipped gold.

He smiled met my scrutiny effortlessly in a way only John Watson could. _How many days has it been since he looked at me this way? _

_John…_

"I'm dead, Sherlock."

Confused, I tried to puzzle out his expression again, "Obvious, John."

"I should go."

"Go where?"

"You know," he pointed skywards. I followed his gesture and looked up at the blue and clouds. "Heaven. I should 'move on' as we humans say."

"Heaven?" At one point in my studies I became interested in the accounts of after-death experiences. Apparently for many, Heaven is made up of light, loved-ones, and "happiness".

_Paradise Cielo Niebiosa Himmel Taevas …_

"Yes, Sherlock. Heaven. Don't tell me you've deleted that too."

I glared at him, "Of course not. Religion is one of the greatest acts of passion!"

"Well that's… good…"

I felt like I said something wrong again. Usually this wouldn't be much of a problem, but John cared. _"Caring is not an advantage"_. Mycroft's mantra. But I've long ago realized that "caring" is what made my John… _John_. I can't imagine him without it.

"Will you come back?"

He blinked, "Come back from where?"

"Heaven!" The body in my arms kept me from throwing my hands in the air, "Focus, John! You said you were leaving. Why?!"

"What do you mean 'why'?" Ah, there's the old fighting spirit. "I'm _dead_, Sherlock. _Dead_. I can't just stay here!"

"I don't see why not. You're here now aren't you?" I grimaced inwardly. If I was being truthful to myself, there really was no point to this conversation. I was being selfish. John was d-…gone, and I couldn't do anything about it. If anything, he deserves to move on. He shouldn't have to stay here.

I shouldn't be forcing him to stay here with me.

Suddenly, a hand was at my shoulder and the voice behind me caught me unawares, "Sherlock, who are you talking to?"

I rounded on the Detective Inspector. There it was; that careful look of _pity_.

His hand was shaken off, "Really Inspector, you must be older than I thought. Has your sight already failed you?"

Lestrade backpedaled uncertainly and looked at Mycroft for help who was also annoyingly present. Mycroft switched his umbrella to hang on his wrist and reach out comfortingly to the Inspector.

About time they gotten together, they've been dancing around for ages,

"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke carefully, as if speaking to an injured animal. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to help us out on this one."

Now this was new. An apology? Should I also be expecting someone to break out in song like one of those horrid (but oddly touching) Disney movies?

I motioned carelessly towards the silent man next to me, "I don't know what's come over you two! Can't you see it's John?"

They both slowly followed my hand then back at me. Lestrade shuffled nervously and swallowed, "No one's there mate."

Fierce anger rose in my chest, "I never took you for being particularly rude, Lestrade. Of all the-"

"_Sherlock_," Mycroft hissed sharply, "No. one's. there."

I glanced between the Inspector, Mycroft, and then John who was looking back at me calmly. When it finally clicked, I promised myself to shoot the walls of my mind palace later for not realizing the obvious sooner.

"Ah, they can't see you."

"Nope."

"So it seems like I'm talking to myself."

"Pretty much, yeah."

There was another long silence where Mycroft and Lestrade were staring at me as if I've lost my mind (which should be nothing new really) and John was watching me calmly as if having a conversation between the living and the dead was so very normal.

I caught his eyes and sighed dramatically the way I do when the world was being unexpectedly tiresome that day.

And right then and there, we burst out laughing, and it was the best feeling in the world.

The perks of having a best friend.

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**Yeah. Mystrade. That's right. I went there.**

**Coming soon: An actual plot...**


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